In The Bleak Midwinter
by jejune
Summary: The abnormally cold weather brings out strange revelations in Ron, who begins to have very strange feelings. Harry has a premonition worthy of Trelawney. (Ron story - yes, we love you, Ron...) Will be romance and angst later I suppose...
1. Bitter Cold

In The Bleak Midwinter

In The Bleak Midwinter

A/N: A first try at fanfiction in general. Forgive the all-around 'green-horn-ness'... I'd be grateful for any type of feedback. No-one seems to love Ron enough, so I had a go at writing him his own story. (Yes, Ron, we all love you... you and your spiders and your touchy moments...) If you like it, review; if you don't like it, review anyway. If it's acceptable I'll write the next parts (in which I shall gather sufficient material to make a complete fool of myself).

Disclaimer: All characters except 'spooky (I wish) hooded figures' belong to Joanne Kathleen Rowling.

_in the bleak midwinter / frosty wind made moan / earth stood hard as iron / water like a stone_

Winter at Hogwarts was usually bearable, as long as one had the warm fires of the common rooms, friends to talk to, and the promise of Christmas, not to mention Madam Pomfrey's Pepper-Up Potion. This winter, however, was proving itself to be quite different. 

So far, winters at Hogwarts had never been unbearably cold. Snow had not yet fallen, but the grounds were bleak and wet and the wind blew fit to knock over any students who wandered out. Practical study of Care of Magical Creatures was abandoned, taught instead in the relative warmth of a spare classroom, Hagrid explaining the theory in a booming voice that echoed 'round the four walls. Draco Malfoy's face seemed more pinched and white than ever, his slender frame now painfully thin. 

In the deserted, cold library, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were working on an Astronomy chart and trying to forget about the ravaging cold that was making its presence known outside, howling and battering the walls of the castle. Ron was yawning and watching Hermione bend over the Astronomy chart, the dim light doing strange things to her hair, making it soft and foamy and tumbled. It suited her. 

'I give up,' he said at length, tossing her the book that he had been pretending to pore over for the past hour. 'Let's just go back up to the common room, shall we? Harry will be wondering where we are.' 

'Ron, your homework isn't finished…' The cold had crept into her voice, making it low and soft and almost windy. It was nice, Ron thought sleepily. 'Are you sure?' 

'It's the weekend. I can always finish it another time.' He put his quill back into his pocket. 'My brain won't work. It's all fogged up.' He stretched his too-long arms, a subtle invitation to sleep; 'I'm tired.' 

'So am I.' He looked at her then, and realised with a pang that he had been keeping her there too long; her eyes were shadowed and her eyelashes drooped. 

He half-stood guiltily. 'I'd better take you up – shouldn't have taken all your time –' 

'Nonsense, Ron, you know you need it.' She laughed softly. 'Besides, I don't think I want to go up – face Parvati and Lav, and everybody talking…' Looking around, she ran her hand through her hair, the curls tumbling over her shoulders. Ron wondered why he was suddenly noticing everything. 'It's nice here.' 

Ron threw a disbelieving look at the library, at its cold stone floor, tired lamps giving off a dim light, the rows of books that only Hermione was totally familiar with. '_Here_? But Hermione, it's –' 

'I know,' she said, thumping the book closed, 'but… it's different, here. We're alone. It's… nice.' 

_If I didn't know her so well_, Ron thought, _I'd be worried about the connotations of that speech. _

'All right,' he said, throwing up his hands. 'We'll stay here. For a while. After that it's back to your dorm for you.' 

'Yes, Father,' she said, giggling quietly. 'Actually, I could just sleep here.' And she leant her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

'Hermione, are you _crazy_?' he laughed, his shoulders shaking her head slightly. 

'No…' 

'We really need to get you back upstairs. I think you've been working too much…. Hermione?' He looked down at her, or at least what he could see of her, her curly brown hair and the tip of her nose and shoulder. She was asleep. 

He groaned, but decided not to wake her up. She had looked so tired, so stressed. It was the ever-present cold, he realised, that was drugging their senses, sending the harsh whisper of the wind into their ears. Shifting slightly, he looked at her sideways. Maybe he'd just let her sleep for a little while, and wake her when it was time… 

_Bang_. Something hit him like a Bludger on the Quidditch pitch, and for a moment he was stunned. 

Suddenly he had the strangest urge to take her face in both hands and kiss her. 

She looked so peaceful in her sleep; he could just see the tip of her nose from the corner of his eye. Ordinary girl, but very very strange feelings. He felt sure she was going to be woken up by the sound of his heart trying to get out of his chest. Maybe he was going mad, just like everyone else this winter. 

_Ron Weasley, you do not kiss your best friend. _

_But – _

_You just _don't. 

_I _want_ to_. 

He shook his head angrily, her head rocking slightly on his shoulder. It was too strange, this feeling. Almost as though she wasn't only his best friend, but something more. And his motto was, strange _out_! 

Looking down at her, he suddenly really, really wanted to kiss the tip of her nose and her eyes and her mouth and… 

_Stop thinking about that_. 

_I don't _want_ to_. His second voice was mutinous. _I want_ her. 

_Why_? 

He couldn't answer that. Didn't want to. If he even tried to put this feeling into words he would explode. Expressing himself had never been his forte anyway. It was like watching the stars at night, like getting a brainwave in the middle of Potions class, it was like summer and flowers and everything the opposite of this goddamn winter… 

In other words, he really, _really_ wanted to kiss her. 

He had to be content with slipping an arm around her to caress the slope of her shoulder and arm, with letting his fingers play in her hair, tugging gently at the overabundant curls that had plagued her for almost her entire life. He had always thought critically that she had too much hair. 

_How could I? I love it_. 

That more-than-best-friends feeling was becoming dangerously prevalent. 

And finally he couldn't stand it any more, and, taking her by the shoulders, gently turned her around and _almost_ kissed her on the temple… 

There was a cold hand on his shoulder, and Ron looked up into the face of Madam Pince; finally removed from the desk behind which she had sheltered for the duration of the miserably inclement weather, she wore no friendly expression. He gulped. 

'Mr. Weasley,' she said softly, 'we will have none of that in my library. Please remove yourself.' She glanced down at the slumbering Hermione. 'And her. Besides, it is after hours.' She turned and left for her desk, robes swishing behind her like a vanishing threat once the victim has complied. 

He had no choice but to shake her awake. 'Hermione? Hermione?' 

'Yes?' She looked up with sleepy eyes. 

'We have to go.' He cast an anxious look at Madam Pince, who was eyeing them. 'It's – it's after hours.' _Not to mention that if you don't get the hell out of here I am going to give up resisting and kiss you…and…_

'All right.' She climbed up him like an arthritic bean, standing up and rubbing her eyes, stretching her arms to the side instead of into the air like most people. He tried not to look at her. 'What time is it?' Her voice was still windy and soft and low. He tried not to listen. 

'I don't know,' he half-whispered. 

'Let's go up, then,' she said, gathering up his Astronomy chart and their textbooks and the ink-bottle. 'Thank you.'

'For?' 

She smiled, eyes crinkling, and pushed him to the door. _Why_ hadn't he ever noticed how sweet it was to watch her eyes crinkling? 'For letting me stay down here. Come on, let's go up to the common room, _Father_.' As they walked along the corridor he felt a pang of something that was painful in its sweetness: he was no more than a friend to her. No more than a friend. Surrogate father, best friend. The more-than-best-friends feeling wouldn't allow him to think about that. 

_Hey, wait a moment. Why are you dwelling on that? You don't want to be more than best friends, do you?_

She whispered the password, and they entered the common room, the fire stoked down, Harry sitting alone staring into it. Ron felt a pang of guilt for leaving him alone, but suppressed it. He was Harry Potter. He didn't need anyone. 

'Hey,' he said, as the other two sat down next to him. 'Where've you been?' 

'Library,' said Ron, his voice slightly clearer than it had been. 'Homework.' 

'I'm tired,' said Harry moodily. 'Let's go to bed, shall we?' 

'Good night, then,' said Hermione, putting an arm around Harry. 'Don't look so glum. It's the weekend.' Harry grinned half-heartedly at the idea of Hermione saying something like that, and allowed Ron to pull him up to the dormitory. The red-haired boy was slightly glad to leave Hermione at the bottom of the stairs, to get rid of this strange feeling that he was vigorously trying to squash. 

'Are you all right, Harry?' he asked in concern, turning to his other best friend, one for whom, thankfully, he felt no untoward sentiments. Harry looked tired, almost haggard, his head drooping, eyes shadowed like Hermione's. 

'Yes, I'm fine – just tired.' He gave his friend a tired smile and flopped onto his bed, a bundle of robes, not bothering to undress. 'Good night.' 

Ron shook his head, dropping onto his bed in turn. Long limbs huddled under the sheets, he stared at the darkness formed by the box of the curtains, thinking (or trying not to). He was determined to forget about that evening in the library. He hadn't been himself. She must never know what he had been thinking… even _he_ didn't want to remember what he had been thinking. 

How could he have wanted to do that? To kiss her, to press his lips to her eyelid and the tip of her nose and of course her own lips… 

_Typical me_, he thought. _Attack of the hormones, aimed directly at my best friend_. _I am going to forget all about this and treat her like the best friend she is_. 

Still. 

It would have been nice to just press his lips to hers, even for a moment, just to know what it would feel like… 

He was asleep. 

'How are you this morning, Harry?' Hermione asked, pouring maple syrup over Ron's pancakes, something oddly motherly she did every day. He took the plate from her gently, looking in turn at Harry, who looked much more cheerful as he sliced his pancake into quarters. 

'Fine,' he said half-apologetically. 'I'm sorry; it's just that I can't stand the winter. It's so bleak and cold and horrible –' Breaking off with a shudder, he bit off a mouthful of pancake. 

'I know,' Hermione said comfortingly, 'but it'll be over soon, and anyway the Christmas holidays begin in a week. Are you going home, Ron?' 

'No,' said Ron, slicing his pancake in turn. 'I don't feel like enduring Percy's job description, thank you very much. I'd have more fun here anyway, common room fire and all.' He was pleased to realise that the strange feelings of last night had disappeared, and grinned at Harry, who grinned back. 

Then he turned his head and looked at Hermione, who was pouring maple syrup over her own pancakes, her curly brown hair tumbling over her shoulders almost as though uncombed. Her face was groggy but peaceful, a wholly unfamiliar look for Hermione, who was usually terribly stressed if tired. And that strange feeling flooded right through him again, leaving him breathless and terrified. What if he were to just lean over and kiss her, right there, over her pancakes? Would anyone notice? 

_Of course they'll notice. Are you off your nut?_

He squashed it firmly and took a mouthful of breakfast. Harry was saying something about Quidditch. 

'…of course there won't be any more Quidditch practice,' he said dolefully, 'not with Professor McGonagall banning all matches until the cold spell is over… Ron, are you listening?' 

'Yes,' said Ron promptly, 'and I think it's unfair.' 

'You're right,' said Harry. 'It is unfair. We were scheduled to smash Slytherin…' He sighed. 'Oh well, we can always do that after the winter. But a team doesn't perform half as well without practice…' 

'You're becoming another Wood, Harry,' Hermione said gently. 'Don't worry so much. You have an excellent team.' She smiled at Ron, who had been taken onto the team as a Chaser. He was intensely proud of it, and was just as intense in practice. 

'I suppose you're right,' said Harry, getting up. 'Do either of you want to go for a walk?' 

Ron was startled. 'Outside, and in the cold?' 

'I find it invigorating – god knows I need a little waking up.' Harry yawned. 'It's all right if you don't want to –' His face was full of the innocent yearning that Ron could never resist. 

'All right, all right,' said Hermione, grinning. 'Harry, you must have been very cute as a baby. Very, very cute.' 

'Why?' asked Harry, his eyes flying wide. 'There aren't any pictures of me as a baby. Well – except that one in the –' He coughed loudly. 'Well. Er.' 

Ron grinned. 'I was an extraordinarily ugly infant. My mother thought I was going to grow up a giraffe.' He looked down at his lengthy frame, almost a foot taller than Hermione. 'She was right.' 

They got up, walking down the corridors that seemed to ooze with a tangible, uncomfortable cold which invaded bones and minds and voices. The air that hit them in the face as soon as they exited the castle and entered the grounds was sharp but somehow not fresh, as though it had originated very far away. Ron walked slowly, his hands in the pockets of his robes, letting the wind hit him in the face. He worked on pretending Hermione wasn't there, but it didn't work very well, especially when she was walking right next to him. The strange feeling seemed to come in short, devastating bursts, leaving him tottering. 

'It's nice out here,' said Harry finally as they reached the secluded portion of trees near the lake that they usually leaned against when they wanted to think. 'Even if it _is_ cold. Actually – I think it's colder _inside_ the castle.' 

'You're right,' Hermione agreed thoughtfully. 'The air is stale out here. It's strange.' 

It was still cold, Ron thought resentfully, and he was about to freeze. 

'There's something _wrong_ about this winter,' said Harry, his voice rising in plaintive vehemence. 'It's unnatural. Paranormal. I don't know – it's just not supposed to _be _like this.' 

'Never mind, Harry,' said Hermione, patting him on the shoulder. 'It'll clear up. Spring will come soon enough.' 

'Can't come too soon,' muttered Ron, one long leg up against the rough bark. 'I really think Harry's right. There's something unnatural about all this cold.' 

'Nonsense,' said Hermione, somehow not sounding quite so sure of herself. 'You've not been sleeping enough during Divination lessons. It's just like something _she_ would say. "Foreboding! Doom! Death!"' 

Ron laughed, but only half-heartedly. They continued to stare out over the lake, looking over the frozen water to an inner fantasy that none could understand but each knew in their own clumsy way. 

The winter moon that rose to shine over the castle found Ron Weasley staring out of the window, forehead pressed against the glass, trying in vain to comprehend the latest Strange Feelings.It wasn't working. The sheets were wrapped around him in an effort to keep out the cold. 

He felt strangely light-headed, as though he was floating above himself, each breath taking him higher and higher and higher… Perhaps this was what they called 'ascension'. It felt like flying, felt like he was under the Imperius curse and feeling that slow relaxed state of bliss. 

Movement caught his eye in the grounds just outside the Forbidden Forest. He blinked and shook his head to clear it, regretfully bringing himself back down to earth, and looked out, squinting. It was a group of seven people, all tall, all hooded. They had come out of the Forest into the clearing, forming a circle of hooded figures in the clearing. 

_You'redreaming_. 

_No, I'm not,_ said the voice which had earlier been mutinous. _This is real_. 

The circle looked more like a pentagon. Professor Binns, in a dry voice like chalk snapping: 'Pentagons were a source of power for strong Dark Magic and other wild sources…' There were two people in the centre, one robed in black, one robed in white. They both held daggers. Even from the window Ron saw the moonlight glinting off the blade. 

They were moving, joining, separating. A complicated dance of the two elements in the centre, who were hopelessly intertwined, stabbing with their daggers into the cold night air, seeming to pierce the veil of the world and to let something in… 

They had let in the cold. Ron didn't so much see it as sense it. He could feel it, could hear the hiss of escaping death, see the faint luminous glow of the white-robed one's cowl, feel the freezing cold that seemed to be driving at him from all directions… He covered his eyes and toppled to the floor. 

And so they found him in the morning, the four other sixth-year boys staring worriedly down at a mass of long limbs and tousled red hair and a face paler than the winter snow hopelessly tangled in the crimson Gryffindor sheets. The face was cold to the touch. 


	2. Endless White

In The Bleak Midwinter

In The Bleak Midwinter: Part 02

A/N : The second part of this extremely Ron-oriented story; thanks to all the reviewers for the wonderful feedback. I'll keep on writing based on the reviews I get. Still feeling slightly stiff and unused to all this, forgive me. I know this part isn't the greatest, but please tell me what you thought anyway... (Hermione L. Granger, it's nice to see someone who loves Ron so much, although I don't know if I can get used to sharing him... ;) and the rest of you, a thousand thanks...)

Disclaimer : All the characters mentioned belong to the great J. K. Rowling.

A sea of tangled faces, of soft breath on his forehead (did he have a forehead any more?), of worried, high voices and low sweet whispers just by his ear. Fingertips like coins of warmth on the sides of his head. Familiar scents, sounds, and always the whistle of the cold in his ear.

'…is he going to be all right, do you think…' A sleep-heavy voice, weighted with worry as well as lethargy, and a hand that pressed his firmly under the covers. 

'…of course he'll be all right, he _has_ to be…' Another voice, a low, windy, soft voice, and a tiny sob that crawled its way into his subconscious. He wanted to stop it. 

'…but…' This voice seemed to be at a loss for words. '…but I can't. It's not my – I mean…' It stopped, paused, mutinous. '…he's not one of us, and they _are_ going to kill him…' 

For a timeless interval that was no more than the flicker of a nerve, Ron felt a screaming fear, unreasonable but unshakable, of the voice. That voice, which seemed to have everything in common with icicles and rain and the freezing snow and wind outside. Footsteps, dashing away from where he lay prone. 

_What am I doing here_? 

There was something like ice on his eyelids, something that while feeling light and cold and beautiful pinned them down like darts. He struggled weakly, fighting it off. Something warm held his hand – a source of freedom, something he could hold on to. He gripped it as tightly as he could. There was a muffled gasp from somewhere on his right, and then a voice, calling. He ignored it, tugging towards the warmth, forcing open his eyelids. 

He saw white, endless white, sheets and beds and walls, and cringed. 

'Ron – Ron!' 

Something was holding him by the neck, and emitting odd strangled gasps. 

He opened his eyes again, and squinted at the strangely familiar brown curls that hung down the back of the person in front of him. It was Hermione. As he looked around he saw a boy in glasses standing by the bed. Harry. He was safe. A warm sense of security flooded through Ron, and he tried to sit up, although this was almost impossible with Hermione clinging to him. 

His throat wouldn't say 'Hello'. It said something totally incomprehensible, although the closest phonetic sound seemed to be 'Eurgh'. 

'Hey, Ron,' said Harry, with something that would have been a grin if not for the stress that broke it on his face. 

Hermione drew back, her eyes dry but large. 'Oh, Ron. We thought –' 

'What happened?' This came out satisfactorily, if a little hoarsely. 'Why am I here?' 

'We found you in the dormitory, on the floor, almost frozen,' said Harry. 'I thought you were dead. Neville almost went hysterical – he thought you'd been cursed.' 

'What _happened_?' burst out Hermione, one hand flying reflexively to her mouth. 

Ron frowned, blinking. 'I think I'm – missing something.' He vaguely remembered seeing something out of the dormitory window before the feeling of cold that drove into the bone that he remembered so clearly. 'I know I saw _something_.' 

'Can you remember what you saw?' Hermione asked, face tense. 

'Actually, no,' said Ron, looking rather surprised. 'I just know I saw something. I know it was something bad.' A flash of memory crossed the corner of his thoughts; the fierce, cold glint of steel in the moonlight, like the light that glinted off ice… 

Harry looked concerned. 'Maybe we should let him rest,' he said to Hermione. 'He's just come 'round, after all… You shouldn't push yourself,' he added to Ron. 'Do you want us to leave you alone?' 

'Don't leave,' Ron protested, but Madam Pomfrey came up behind him with a large mug in her hand and he knew there was no hope. 

'Out, both of you,' she ordered sternly. 'We're very glad he's woken up now, aren't we, and we want to keep him healthy.' Giving him one last look, Harry slipped through the half-open door, leaving Hermione to trail after him. She smiled at Ron as she went, her eyes crinkling, and as she closed the door he let out a sigh that did not escape Madam Pomfrey. 

'Drink up,' she said firmly. 

'Medicine?' he asked, the feeble, toneless whisper of a child who is too weary to protest. 'I hate medicine.' Then, as an afterthought: 'Couldn't I have chocolate instead?' 

'Nonsense, it's good for you,' insisted Madam Pomfrey, shoving the mug into his hand. 'You can have chocolate later.' She stood over the bed, her figure black against the light, and Ron lifted the mug to his lips and drank reluctantly, eyeing her. He was surprised to feel tiny fronds of warmth escape into his parched mouth as soon as the first drops went down his throat, spreading throughout his entire body, turning into wildfire; and it did taste of chocolate, after all. And with the warmth came a kind of comfortable drowsiness that made him want to lay his head on the pillow like a small child. 

Madam Pomfrey watched him approvingly, then took the mug from him and pushed him gently back onto the pillow. He fell backwards lightly, red hair like a new bloodstain on the white sheets, eyes drifting closed and head turning slightly to the side. Madam Pomfrey pulled the covers up around him and left quietly, for a moment forgetting that Ron was a boy who stood almost a foot taller than her. 

Ron found himself walking through the corridors, footsteps echoing on the stone, throwing open the double doors and walking out into the courtyard of Hogwarts. The sharp, stale winter air blew in his face, but somehow it wasn't terrible any more. He wasn't cold. The air was almost invigorating, a sign telling him that he was in his true element. 

He walked aimlessly through the grounds, watching as the snow began to fall all around him, coating his eyelashes and his nose and shoulders and most probably his hair. The frost-capped trees stood like frozen sentinels as he wandered by, kicking the snow off the grass. 

He came to the patch of trees by the lake that he, Harry and Hermione went to when they wanted to think alone. These, too, were dusted with snow, looking like something out of a Christmas snow-globe, complete with lake. The middle of the lake was frozen, and tiny waves lapped the sides where the water wasn't frozen yet and the rushes had died. The snow was falling into the water and the ice. The whole world was white, a swirling of tiny snowflake-feathers as though someone in the sky had been having a giant pillow fight. 

Looking around, he thought to himself that winter had its own beauty; not the sleepy, heavy flowering of summer, but a kind of tired, bruised delicateness that was fragile and manifested itself in the frost and the snowflakes that were never identical – someone's twisted idea of creativity. It was not something he would usually think, but he was not surprised at himself. 

Walking down to the lake, he dipped a hand in the water and let the tiny, freezing waves lap at his hands and glove his fingertips; the snow came down, covering his hair. He felt strangely at home and in his element. He had never thought of winter as a favourable season, instead praying that it would end as fast as it possibly could. Now he was almost one with the driving wind that blew around a corner out of nowhere and ruffled his hair. 

There was something wrong with his reflection. Slowly he drew his hand out of the water, letting the ripples stop, and stared at his reflection past the shallow waters where the waves lapped. There was no sign of red in the water. 

A pale face looked back at him, with silver-blonde hair marking the sharp cheeks and corners of the eyes, which were the colour of silver dust over grey, what Ron knew in an instant to be the colour of winter. It wasn't his face. He was looking through someone else's eyes. 

The eyes were Draco Malfoy's. 

Hermione came alone to visit him later the next night, after he had awoken from the strangest dream of his life and had three less-than-comfortable meals with Madam Pomfrey watching him like a hawk. Harry was serving a detention for Professor Snape in the dungeons. Watching her sit down at the edge of the bed, endearingly awkward in her held-back curiosity and her treatment of him as though he were a china doll, not to be broken, a whole new wash of Strange Feelings swept over Ron, leaving him dizzy again, trying not to look at her. 

'So,' she said, 'how are you feeling?' 

'Much better,' he answered, trying to sound nonchalant, but failing miserably. 

'You've missed out on a lot of schoolwork,' she said. 'You were – frozen – for a week and a half. Nearly two. Professor Flitwick covered the entire fourth chapter of our Charms textbook while you were asleep.' 

_A week and a half?_ Ron was incredulous, yet amused at the inevitable work-discussion. 'Do you want me to give you some notes?' she offered. 'I'll help you catch up, if you want.' Ron, remembering the first of the strange feelings over Astronomy homework in the library, was about to hastily shake his head no, but she looked so timid, so eager to help, that he couldn't refuse. 

'All right, thanks,' he said, grinning at her. 'When I get out of this bed.' She looked down at him then, at the red hair on the white sheets and the tall body that seemed so out of place on the infirmary bed. 

She paused for a moment, still gazing down at him. He looked up at her with a puzzled expression on his face. 'Hermione, what's wrong?' 

One hand flew up to cover her eyes as she let out a choked gasp. 

'Hermione?' He struggled to sit up, finding it slightly harder than normal, and feeling rather ill at ease as he patted her on the shoulder. 'What's wrong? Are you all right?' 

She sniffed. 'Yes, I'm fine. It's just…' Her hand came down after a gentle tug on her arm, and Ron saw that her eyes were red-rimmed. 'Oh, Ron, I thought you were going to _die_.'

Awkwardly he brought his arms up around her. 'It's all right. I'm not dead, right? It's all right now.'

_They thought I was going to die… _

She sniffled. 'It's not all right, seeing you in that bed. You're supposed to be taller than me and looking down at _me_, and annoying me no end like usual. You're not supposed to be lying down like that.'

He grinned over the top of her head. 'You want me to annoy you now? Since that seems to be my allotted job and all…'

Hermione managed a grin. 'No, right now you're being perfectly sweet.' She blushed. 'Don't take that the way it sounds…'

He held her close for a moment, horribly afraid that she might hear or feel his heart, which seemed to want to get right out of his ribcage. When she spoke again it vibrated through his shoulder, seeming to go straight to his disobedient heart, making it beat even faster. 'Thanks, Ron. I must seem rather an idiot, mustn't I?'

'No, you don't,' he said, idly running his fingers along her shoulder blade.

'You're the one who's ill,' she said, detaching herself gently, and smiling. 'I should be comforting you – I'm sorry…'

'Don't be,' he said, as she pushed him back down onto the pillows just like Madam Pomfrey had. 'Tell me about something. About school. About Snape. About Harry's act of… whatever he did to get detention.'

And she sat down at the edge of his bed and talked to him for a good half-hour about Harry and Snape and how the Astronomy was getting along. He listened quietly, laughing at intervals, and watching the way the light fell on the side of her face.

Ron stayed five more days in the infirmary steadily getting warmer, and by the time he was out there were many tokens from the Hogwarts students on the table next to his bed wishing him well. He was pleasantly surprised, although most of the students had left for home as the term had ended and the Christmas holidays had begun. He was spared much comment and questioning because of the absence of the other Gryffindor boys. Harry and Hermione never pressured him. There were no classes to attend, just homework to finish and catching up to be done with Hermione.

'Dumbledore wants to see you,' Harry said to Ron as they sat in the common room after dinner.

'Are you two coming?' asked Ron, looking at Hermione, who nodded.

'If you want us to,' said Harry, standing up and pushing the thick Potions textbook aside. 'He said when you were up, so perhaps we'd better go now.'

'All right,' agreed Ron reluctantly, setting aside _Flying With The Cannons_ and standing next to Harry. Hermione stood up as well, stretching her arms to the side, and all three of them climbed out of the portrait hole, walking down the corridors to Albus Dumbledore's office.

Harry knocked tentatively.

The door swung open and they walked into the office.

Ron looked around, seeing a spacious circular room, with numerous portraits of sleeping witches and wizards hung on the walls. The room was filled with objects and the occasional mahogany chest, and a claw-footed desk held numerous pieces of parchment. Behind it and around it, on shelves and spindle-legged tables, various silver objects spun and twisted like miniature snakes. Dumbledore sat at the desk, smiling at them as he put down a quill.

'You wanted to see me, sir?' asked Ron, trying not to look as ill at ease as he felt.

'Yes, I did indeed, Mr. Weasley,' Dumbledore said, standing up. 'About nineteen days ago you were found in the Gryffindor common room by Mr. Potter and the other sixth-year boys, am I right?'

'Yes, sir,' said Ron.

'I am curious as to what caused this situation, Mr. Weasley,' said Dumbledore, taking one of the spinning silver objects off the shelf. 'You were found in a critical condition, believed to be dead, and it was only through the ministrations of Madam Pomfrey that you managed at all to hang on. Can you remember anything of what caused this collapse?'

'No, sir,' said Ron, his throat dry. 'I can only remember the cold.'

'The cold?' asked Dumbledore, the light of interest in his eyes. He had not ceased to look friendly, but Ron discerned a light in his eye that showed more than that. Dumbledore was concerned – and, if it was possible for Dumbledore to show this emotion – _afraid_. Or something close, like worry, or fear on someone else's behalf.

Ron told the story as he remembered it, adding the flash of the moonlight on steel and the driving, harrying cold. Dumbledore nodded, frowning, one hand toying with the silver object that was spinning and twisting in his fingers.

'That is all you remember?'

'Yes, sir.'

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. 'I have asked those who found you about this already, and they could give no better information. To them, you were simply frozen.'

'But, sir,' Ron found his voice. 'What could make me freeze like that?'

'I don't know, Mr. Weasley,' said Dumbledore, casting a vague look at Harry and Hermione, who were standing behind Ron with expressions of dismay and concern. 'We shall indeed try to find out.'

'It had something to do with the Forbidden Forest,' said Ron, struck by a sudden flash of memory. 'The bad thing came out of there.'

Dumbledore looked even more thoughtful. 'For now I want you to be very careful, Mr. Weasley. I will have one of the teachers stay on guard at a tower tonight, just in case we see anything.'

Ron nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. _This is crazy_.

_This is true, remember?_ the other voice told him.

'Thank you, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger,' said Dumbledore. 'You may go now.'

They hurried back through the echoing corridor, full of unsaid questions that brimmed over into startled, puzzled expressions.

'I'll _never_ understand this,' Ron groaned, looking over the notes Hermione had handed him. 'It's all theory, Hermione. You _know_ my brain wasn't made to understand theory.'

'Nonsense,' Hermione said decidedly. 'You'll understand once you read _this_.' She passed him another wad of notes. 'It's really easy, turning a chair into a cat, especially because you don't need to enlarge it, it gets smaller. Or do you want to work on Charms now?'

Ron nodded fervently. They had been at it for hours in the common room, Ron not feeling too comfortable under the eye of Madam Pince. The atmosphere of the common room was slightly friendlier than the library; the fire, stoked down, glowed pleasantly like the brim of the setting sun just before darkness, and the warmth that Ron had learnt to appreciate flooded the room. Under glowing firelight Hermione's hair became odd again, became soft and foamy and strange, and her features sharpened by shadow. He felt strange, too, the kind of strange he had felt when she had fallen asleep on his shoulder in the library. His own hair was highlighted by the glowing embers, his milky skin stained with a glowing reddish-orange when he turned too close to the fire.

She pulled a matchbox from her pocket. 'The fourth chapter was on animating inanimate objects, and the first and simplest task was to make the matches dance. It's more difficult because matches are so small, there's barely room to hold a spell… Try it.' She showed him his notes. He looked at the spell and the complicated diagrams, shaking his head.

Waving his wand at the matches, he muttered the spell under his breath, managing only to split the matches in half completely.

Hermione shook her head. 'No, watch me, Ron,' she said, and set two matches on the table in front of her. She pointed her wand at them, and they began to dance, one end bouncing on the table, then the other. Ron laughed.

'What?' She looked slightly hurt.

'Nothing, it's just that I don't think I'll ever be as apt as you when it comes to these things.' He shook his head again. 'Hermione, how do you _do_ that?'

She blushed, and he noticed that her eyes were shadowed again.. 'I don't know, it just… comes. Do you want to go over the essay on –'

'Wait. Stop.' Ron looked at the matches that were still dancing in place on the table, the spell within twisting the thin sticks of wood. 'Hermione, that's enough for the night. You look properly done in. Let's turn in and go to bed. Thanks very much for tutoring me.' He put a hand on her shoulder. 'Let me clear up.'

'No, it's all right,' and she bent to retrieve the notes, gathering them into one neat pile, her curls falling into her face, streaming about her ears as she folded everything up and placed them in another neat pile. This utterly Hermione-like action made him feel even stranger. Why was it he had never noticed all these things about her before?

_You shouldn't be noticing these things _now_!_

_Why not? _

He reached out then to pull a strand of her hair behind her ear, and let his hand slide down the hair that ran down her back. She pulled back from the table and looked at him in a way that made him slightly afraid.

'Ron,' she asked, 'are you all right?'

'No,' he half-whispered.

She looked at him, brows darting together, as he looked back at her with blue eyes that seemed very far away. Slowly he brought a hand up to her cheek and she was startled at its warmth, after he had been frozen so long… He felt comfortingly warm, in fact, as his hand cupped her cheek, drawing her closer.

'What are you doing?' she asked, her voice slightly higher-pitched than usual. His face suddenly seemed so _close_.

Ron had never imagined that kissing anyone could be like this. He had never imagined anything about things like this anyway, not giving much thought to sentimentality, never imagined that anything could be so familiar yet so new, so reassuring yet so frightening. He felt her leaning into him and knew her eyes were closed and the firelight was throwing shadows onto her eyelids. She started as he slid his hand down to her shoulder, and pulled away, her large brown eyes frightened.

'Ron,' she whispered, 'I think we're going crazy,' and then she fled, leaving him with the pile of notes on the table and the matches, still dancing, and the fire that was slowly burning itself to nothing. 


	3. Disconnected

In The Bleak Midwinter

In The Bleak Midwinter: Part 03 

A/N : I'm really terribly sorry this came out so late; I was really struggling with it. I'd love it if you could all do me the kindness of reviewing and telling me it was worth while. I know this bit isn't that great, but I promise, I'll develop it. On a lighter note, the plot makes an appearance, Ron has a weird dream and Hermione really, really doesn't know what she wants... Thanks Leyo and Dracaenas and Quidditch and Winky/Dobby and... oh, all you wonderful supportive reviewers...

Disclaimer : Everything belongs to J. K. Rowling except the spooky (I wish) ornaments and Neville's new personality and, oh, of course - cold burns.

Ron, his eyes heavy with sleep, came down the stairs to the common room, where the fire was burning steadily, and saw a small figure curled up on a sofa in front of the fire. It was Hermione. At the sight of her all the feelings of the night before came flooding back into him, leaving a kind of sweet pain in his chest that rose and fell at each breath. It was slightly like flying. 

'Good morning,' he said, and as she started, half-turning, he saw the firelight glinting out of her eyes. It was slightly unnerving. 

'Good morning,' she said, and hastily turned back around to the fire. 

He slid onto the sofa next to her, watching her tense. 'What's wrong, Hermione?' 

'Nothing,' she said in a barely audible voice, and directed a gaze so strong at the fire that Ron wondered why it didn't roar into blazing ten-foot flames. Apprehension rose in him like a tidal wave, mingling with the sweet throbbing pain. 

'I want to talk,' he said stubbornly, ignoring the not-so-subtle hint that he should leave her alone. 

She gave no answer, but the fingers of her left hand were so tightly intertwined with the fingers of her right that they were rapidly turning white. Ron reached for her clasped hands and gently unlaced the fingers, absent-mindedly enjoying having her smooth cool skin against his own. 'I want to talk,' he repeated, summoning up every scrap of nerve he had gathered the night before and shutting his eyes briefly. Confrontations had never been his forte either; he much preferred to keep to himself and let problems sort themselves out. Either that, or he lost his head completely. This time, however, his inner voice had prevailed, storming at him that he couldn't very well leave _this_ to sort itself out alone… 'About what happened last night,' he finished, looking at her. 

She started, turning away. 'I don't want to talk about it.' 

'Well, I do,' he said, more calmly than he felt; inside he was a pool of churning emotion, apprehension and frightened anticipation and that sweet pain that rose and fell. 'And I'm just as much a part of it as you.' Then, softer, he asked, 'Didn't it mean anything to you at _all_, Hermione?' 

Her face, her eyes, were flecked with pain. 'I don't know, Ron. I – I wish –' She paused. 'I wish it had never happened.' 

'Why?' He reached up a hand to turn her face towards his. 'Hermione, _why_? I – I felt something from you, I really did.' 

'No, you didn't.' She pulled away and looked back at the fire. 

'Hermione,' he said, incredulous. 'Listen to me. You can't run from the truth. Neither can I. I never asked to go mad. I never _asked_ to go all weak in the knees every time you even looked at me. And last night everything just…' 

'Stop.' She was nervously twirling one curl around her finger, and to his utmost annoyance he wanted to kiss her again. 'I don't want to talk about it. In fact, if you ever mention it to me again I'll –' 

He started towards her, taking her hands, glaring right down into her brown eyes. 'Look,' he said firmly. 'You're supposed to be the mature one. You're supposed to accept facts, not me. I'm supposed to be the one who wants to deny _everything_. It's been that way for six years, remember?' 

She turned away, eyes suddenly glinting in the firelight as though there was glass behind them. 'Well, you can go and play role-reversal on your own. I don't want to hear any more about that. It was just _wrong_, and we were both tired.' 

'Fine,' he shot back bitterly. 'It wasn't important to you. Only the most monumental, stunning moment in my entire life, and it wasn't important to you. You can deny it if you want, and I'll go off and be mature. It doesn't matter any more, does it?' 

The corner of her mouth trembled for a moment before she shot back, 'Fine.' 

'Fine.' 

'Fine.' 

'Fine.' 

'Fine.' 

'_Fine_.' 

'_Fi _– mmf…'At the time he had no idea why he did it, other than an overwhelming desire to satisfy the sweet pain and shut her up simultaneously, but he seized her by the shoulders and kissed her vehemently. He felt her tense, and with a shock realised that she was actually returning it. And with slight chagrin he realised that anger only intensified the strange feeling. 

There was a sudden explosive clatter behind them. Ron and Hermione sprang violently apart to see Harry, a cracked bottle of ink at his feet, staining the floor, staring wide-eyed at them. The beginnings of an incredulous smile were playing about the corners of his mouth. 

There was a moment that seemed to stand still. Hermione was frozen in place, one stray curl floating across her cheek; Ron's face was paling, the scattering of freckles across his nose standing out to resemble the dots on the ends of exclamation marks. The fire crackled, seemingly oblivious to the events unfolding right before its flickering tendrils. Outside the snow tumbled down. 

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Harry bent down to pick up the fragments of the ink-bottle, Ron and Hermione scrambling to help him. Gingerly dusting his finger across the spill of dark ink, Ron's hand brushed Hermione's for a second. Although she jerked her hand away, it was enough to make him slightly dizzy again. He lifted his finger abstractedly to stare at the smear of ink that ran like a calligraphic L across it. 

Hermione took out her wand, pointing it at the inky mess, and the fragments of glass and spread of ink rose gently into the air, binding together into an ink bottle. 

Gratefully, Harry took it. 'Thanks, Hermione.' He lifted a finger and made a face. 'Ugh. It's all over ink.' 

'What do you expect?' Hermione said rather peevishly. 'It's a binding spell, and the glass _was_ soaked…' Ron envied her her self-control; he felt as though if he even spoke he would explode into tiny little pieces that Hermione would have to perform a binding spell on. Not that she would; she'd probably leave him to decorate the Gryffindor walls. 

'So,' said Harry, almost conversationally, as he wiped off his fingers. 'Exactly what was that?' 

'What was what, Harry?' Hermione asked tightly. Ron's mouth tightened into a wry smile. _Now I'm in for it._

Harry grinned. 'Don't tell me you weren't doing anything, because I'm not going to believe a word of it.' 

Ron saw his expression drop from mischievous to confused at the look on Hermione's face. 

The thinking-place was a strangely logical place to go to when they wanted to discuss Hermione without her being there; both Harry and Ron knew she would be in the library drowning her frustrations in an ocean of books. The snow was falling yet again, landing on Ron's eyelashes and Harry's jet-black hair and dusting the landscape like icing-sugar. Ron sat down at the base of a particularly tall tree and leant his head against the bark, half-closing his eyes. Harry was standing over him at another tree, his glasses fogging up and his breath coming in irregular clouds of steam, resembling Mrs. Weasley's crotchety kettle.

'What happened?' was the first thing out of Harry's mouth. Ron was unfazed; he'd been expecting it, after all. 

'What d'you think happened?' he shot back, a wry smile twisting the corners of his mouth. 

Harry grinned at him rather uncertainly. 'All I know was that you two were getting rather too close for my comfort.' 

'We were,' said Ron bluntly, but not without dignity. 'I initiated it.' 

Harry snorted, another cloud of steam rising into the air. '_You_? Decided to give her a little instruction on fraternising with the best friend, did you?' He took off his glasses and wiped them off, looking almost anxiously at Ron. 

'Krum didn't kiss her,' said Ron, calmly and devastatingly. 'And I'm quite sure _you're_ her best friend, not me.' 

Harry frowned at him. 'Ron, I thought you two made a point to fight at least once a week. Twice on special occasions.' 

Ron groaned. 'I wanted it to stay that way.' 

'What happened?' Harry looked curious. 'I'm not going to be an idiot and say I was expecting this all along, because I _wasn't_. In fact, Ron, it's one of the last things I ever imagined you doing.' 

'I just wanted to,' Ron said. 

'Since when have you wanted to?' 

'She fell asleep on my shoulder when we were studying,' Ron explained, deadpan. 'I just realised I wanted to. So last night I did.' He almost wanted to laugh at this strange composure, but didn't, instead watching the snow drift lazily into strands of Harry's hair. 'And we had a fight about it just now.' 

Harry looked confused. 'So it's a must that you practically get into each other's clothes whenever you get mad at each other, is that right?' 

Ron had to laugh at this, and felt his composure break. 'Oh, Harry, you're so terribly naïve it's adorable. If that's what you call "getting into each other's clothes", you've obviously never seen _real_ intimacy.' 

Harry, who was turning an interesting shade of crimson, asked, 'And you have?' 

'Fred,' said Ron simply. 'George.' He knitted his hands together as he stretched out his legs, brushing the layer of snow aside. 'It's so bloody confusing I could _cry_. She never knows what she wants. She says she doesn't want to hear about it again, and then, when I kiss her, she kisses me back. _Then_ she behaves like she doesn't even want to talk to me ever again.' 

'_I'm_ still confused,' said Harry. 'To tell you the truth, I've never seen any behaviour on your part that leads up to any of this.' His eyes followed a solitary snowflake morosely, his hand reaching out to catch it and closing over it, melting it. 'Tell me. Do you love her?' Although he smiled, the smile was tentative, and he was blushing again. 

'I don't know,' Ron said, surprised. 'Maybe.' He was vexed to find the familiar heat spreading upward from his neck that meant he was blushing too. 

'Do you hate her?' asked Harry. 

'I don't know,' Ron repeated. 'Maybe.' He paused. 'It feels like both.' 

'You really are confusing me,' said Harry. He put out his hand to help Ron up. 'You should just avoid her for a while. Let things subside. Come on, let's go in. I'm getting cold.' 

With surprise Ron realised he was cold too, a cold that beat at the bone. He shivered, rubbing his arms. 'Me too. There's a fire in the common room, that sounds pretty enticing now.' 

As they headed back to the doors, footsteps smudged like ink in the snowdrifts, Ron found himself thinking that it was not often he had a really close talk with Harry, and that it was somehow awkward but strangely fulfilling. It was fun watching Harry blush. 

Late that night Ron found himself in the library, researching Charms; now that Hermione was not teaching him any more he felt obligated to continue the effort on his own. His eyes kept drooping closed; the lamps were glowing with the usual tired light, making him even sleepier. 

He had to force himself not to think about Hermione; the anger he still harboured towards her was only intensifying that strange attraction he had for her. He wanted to talk to her, scream at her and kiss her at the same time. Harry had been right; it was confusing. 

_I give up_, he thought to himself, putting the book back in its place and turning to the door. Madam Pince eyed him as he walked out self-consciously, knowing or guessing her opinion of his relationship with Hermione. 

The corridors were darkened, almost ominous. It was still cold, cold enough for some discomfort as Ron hurried along the passage. If winter had seemed frightening earlier, it was now multiplied tenfold; there was a foreboding in the air as though something was waiting. 

_Don't be silly_, his rational Mrs. Weasley voice told him. 

The other voice was incoherent with cold and general dizziness. 

He heard footsteps and felt his heart-rate increase instantly, waiting for the owner of those feet to emerge. They were getting closer, yet seemed slow and lagging, as though the person walking towards him was tired and morose and sick of the world in general. Those feelings were beginning to seep into Ron as though he himself were a tired sponge; he began to feel slightly despondent, but he was spooked enough not to be morbid. 

He bumped straight into someone. 

It was Draco Malfoy, painfully thin frame clad in once-well-fitting robes that hung loosely over his shoulders. His silver-blonde hair glinted in the lamplight as he drew nearer. The expression on his face reminded Ron vaguely of the snow piled on dead branches. 'Why don't you watch where you're going?' he demanded sourly. 

Feeling like an ass for being so frightened, Ron said, 'Sorry. I didn't know ferrets had the right-of-way.' He remembered the dream he'd had of seeing his reflection turn into Draco's in the lake, and was instantly antagonistic. 

Draco's face darkened and he raised a hand as if to strike Ron. Lifting a hand in self-defence, Ron pushed forward roughly, letting the side of Draco's palm hit his wrist. 

As their skin made contact Ron felt a bone-breaking pain in his wrist and jerked away, horrified, staring at the place on his wrist that was rapidly turning a muted shade of blue, blending with the usual creamy-pale hue of his skin after the summer tan had worn off and resembling an ink blot in shape. Draco himself had jumped back, staring at Ron. 

'Malfoy…' Ron gasped, incoherent with the strange heavy pain, stretching out his wrist – but Draco had taken off down the other end of the corridor and was dashing away up the staircase that led to the Slytherin dorms. 

The pain in his wrist was becoming overwhelming. Staggering up the corridor, Ron felt as though his left hand was an alien; it was throbbing with a pain that made it seem heavy, and it was _cold_. He could feel the skin around the blot becoming numb, and he felt as though tendrils of cold were reaching in towards the bone. He clutched the banister of the staircase with his good arm and made his way up slowly, trying not to look at the blue mark on his wrist. 

Somehow he tumbled into the common room after gasping the password at a very startled Fat Lady and thrust his hand at the fire. The pain alleviated slightly, but it still ate at the bone; he put his hand as close to the fire as he could without burning it and dropped to his knees. 

'Ron?' 

'Harry,' Ron said thickly, 'come and see what's happened.' 

'It's not Harry,' said the soft voice behind him, 'it's Neville.' 

Half-turning, Ron recognised the now-slight figure of Neville Longbottom, the only other dorm-mate not home for Christmas, sandy-brownish hair dishevelled as though he hadn't been sleeping. The boy drew nearer, squinting at Ron. 

'Why's your hand in the fire?' he asked, gently pulling Ron's arm back. Instantly the pain intensified. Ron winced, but said nothing. 

When he looked at Neville's face he was surprised. Neville looked startled and apprehensive, but not in the least flustered… if Ron hadn't known better, he'd have said Neville knew what had happened at once. 

'How did this happen?' Neville asked him, pressing two fingers and both thumbs to the blot. The pain lightened again as his fingers shifted in pressure. 'Who in Hogwarts could do this to you?' 

'Do what?' Ron said, his voice still thick as pancake syrup. 'What _is_ this?' 

'Cold burn,' said Neville, almost casually. 

'Neville?' Ron asked, turning his head slowly. 'How do you know all this?' Neville was pressing the fingers into his hand, seeming unaffected, and suddenly he thrust Ron's hand closer to the fire, finally letting the flames touch it. Ron let out a yell and pulled his hand back. 'What're you trying to do?' 

'Let me,' said Neville sternly. 'I know what this is. It's a cold burn, I told you. Now put your hand back into the fire.' 

Dubiously Ron let the flames lick at a corner of the blot and felt the pain in that side alleviate. 'It works?' he asked hopefully. 

'Of course it works.' Neville guided his hand into the fire. As the flames licked at it he felt the pain lift, felt a strange floating, and one corner was gone, leaving no mark behind. The fire seemed to lift the burn, draw back the bone-breaking cold that was eating its way into him; it felt strangely natural to him. Neville was still holding his arm, turning it slightly to let the cold burn disappear, then yanking it out. 

Ron looked at his hand. It hadn't been burnt in the slightest. 

'Neville,' he said, his voice more than heavy with suspicion, 'how do you know all this?' 

The brown-haired boy looked more than guilty. Ron was seeing him in a whole new light; he had been the fumbling, innocent, sweet dorm-mate, and now he knew things that he wasn't supposed to. It was like seeing the sun after being shut up in the cupboard when Fred had locked him up and forgotten about him, but this was more terrifying. 

'My father was an Auror,' said Neville, his face sorrowful. 'He and my mother – aren't here any more. My grandmother knows a few things, though, and I've seen her work. How did the person put the cold burn on you?' 

'I touched Draco Malfoy,' Ron explained. 'Near the library – it was an accident, and this happened.' He twisted his wrist gingerly. 'Thanks, Neville.' 

'He just touched you?' Neville sounded surprised. 'But, Ron, that's not how it's supposed to be. Anyway, a student couldn't put a cold burn on you. It requires a wand and highly powerful magic. It's supposed to be debilitating at worst…' 

'I knew it all along,' said Ron. 'He's bad.' 

Neville laughed, shaking his dark-sandy hair out of his eyes. Then his face grew serious. 'Ron, you won't tell anyone, will you? I've never told anyone before. I don't want them to know.' 

'That Draco Malfoy's bad?' Ron asked, idly staring at the flickering fire and wanting irrationally to feel the heat licking at his fingers again. 

'That my parents aren't here anymore.' 

'All right,' Ron agreed, watching Neville get up and head towards the staircase. 'Good night, Neville.' 

'You'll report it to Professor Dumbledore?' asked Neville anxiously, lingering. 

Ron nodded assent and slumped into a chair as Neville disappeared up the staircase like a ship into the night. He stared into the embers of the slowly-dying fire, thoughts slightly disconnected, not bothering to pick up the pieces of his mind, which seemed to have shattered like a glass. 

…and he drifted off… 

There was an old chest in the Weasley attic, an old chest that Mrs. Weasley had never let her children see. Ron found himself kneeling beside it, opening it, running his fingers over the lock. It was an old chest, covered with a blanket woven of spiderwebs and dust; the lock was rough to open. 

Once the chest swung open he peered inside, lifting out a fragile-looking box and prying off the cover, which clung on as though reluctant to reveal its mystery, protected for years. 

Seven little ornaments. Ron counted them as he laid them out on the floor. Each one hung by a slender thread the colour of icicles. Each one formed words, words delicately scalloped and carved in wood. 

One was 'Bill', its letters twined round with leaves and vines. 

One was 'George', its letters identical to Bill's. 

There was 'Ginny', hers the only one with flowers blooming on the letters of her name; the first girl into the Weasley family this generation. His mother had been so proud. 

He looked at all of them, at 'Bill' and 'Charlie' and 'Percy' and the twins and 'Ginny', and there was one last one. 

Who was 'Bryan'? 

He ran his fingers over the fragile carving, dangling it from the end of his thumb, letting it revolve slowly in the dim attic light. A testament to one who had never been. It felt dangerously full of life. If he broke it, perhaps – perhaps something would happen. 

Who was 'Bryan'? 

And where was 'Ron'? 

…and he woke up in a cold sweat by the fireplace, wondering…


	4. What You're Supposed To Say

In The Bleak Midwinter

In The Bleak Midwinter: Part 04

A/N: I had to rush with this one because I'm going to the airport in an hour to fly to Sydney. Owing to this the plot is terrible and the writing is horrible. Dare I still ask for feedback? Go on, make my entire holiday... please? I'll try to get the next part done quickly and turn it out more interesting. If I can't get to a computer in Australia, it'll be nine days... In this installment anyway, Ron and Hermione make up and she does something unexpected, and Ron sees Draco Malfoy performing a very strange ritual. Thanks to all the reviewers - Dracaenas who is far too kind, B, Leyo, Quidditch, Winky/Dobby, Veralidaine, Princess Hermione Sorcellerie, snitch, Haruka Mouse and Gabrielle Antoinette, lwbush, Zsenya, Mrs. Weasley, Cassandra Claire, anime_angel2000, metal mouth, jen, college girl, RonWeasleyFan, Tabbycat2000, Tinkerbell, Blue Butterfly and all the rest of you wonderful people - I'm sorry if I left any of you out! 

A/N 2: Cassandra Claire, Blue Butterfly, you are _smart_. That's all I'm saying. Oh, and I apologise.

Disclaimer: All characters and places except candles and the dream-child belong to J. K. Rowling.

The unresponsive chessboard, with its rows of neat chessmen like the buttons on shirts, his hand like a bee hovering over them, gave Ron plenty of time to think aboutHermione. 

At breakfast she had poured maple syrup over his pancakes with a laughable air of forced calm, then proceeded to ignore him and his feeble attempts at conversation. Harry, noticing this, had given Ron a tiny apologetic grin and taken his own plate gently from Hermione. A stolen, guilty glance at her revealed a tense face, brown eyes shadowed, mouth in a tight line. She was evidently very aware of his presence by her side; Harry had refused to sit in between the both of them, thereby invoking furious glances from both sides. 

All he wanted to tell her was, 'You're overreacting.' 

Harry had said to him, 'Maybe you should apologise.' 

'For what?' Ron asked, stretching long arms above his head and collapsing against the arm of a chair. 

Harry became very interested in the arm of the chair. 'For kissing her.' 

'She's overreacting,' complained Ron, voicing the words that had been spinning in his head. 'Besides, I know she enjoyed it.' His words held a diabolical spark of enjoyment at making Harry become ever more interested in the arm of the chair. 

'Maybe she's afraid,' said Harry softly, almost to himself. 

'Afraid of what?' Ron's head snapped up from its place on the arm-rest and he stared at Harry, watery-blue eyes gently focussing on his best friend's face. 'What's that supposed to mean?' 

Harry frowned, one hand reaching up to toy with the edges where the rims of his glasses met. 'Maybe she thinks it's endangering your friendship. Maybe she thinks you won't be like a friend anymore – more like…' He turned an interesting shade of red and looked down at his other hand. 'Perhaps you should just try and be friends. It's rather threatening to imagine you being… more than that.' 

'I don't _want_ to be friends,' Ron complained. 'I want to be something more than –' Realising what he had just uttered, the tips of his ears began to turn red, and he slumped into the corner of the arm-rest, covering his face with a cushion as Harry poked him in the ribs. 

'Oooh,' he said teasingly, imitating Ron's twin brothers. 'Ickle Ronniekin's got himself a _girlfriend_.' 

'Shut up.' Ron threw the cushion at him. 'She's not my girlfriend anyway.' 

'Do you want her to be?' Harry asked, his hand once again creeping up to toy with his glasses. 'I mean… do you really want her to be?' 

Ron hadn't answered. 

Now, as his hand moved to select a bishop, he thought about it. 

Perhaps he had stepped over the line. 

_I wanted to_, the little rebellious voice in his head declared. _I wanted to more than I've wanted anything else so far. _It paused. _Well, other than a pair of top-box tickets to the next Quidditch World Cup._

Ron shook his head to clear it and moved the bishop to capture an enemy pawn. 

_So tell her that._

_Very funny_, his other voice retorted. 

His mouth, so accustomed to being set in the straight, symmetrical lines of a carefree grin, curved lopsided as he thought it over. Maybe he should just say it very, very fast and leave before she had a chance to yell. But no, he was still supposed to be angry with her. 

_What do I do?_

He stared absently at the place on his wrist where the cold burn had been, then turned his hand over, staring at the now-pale skin, its blue veins swimming under the milky surface. There were no real answers. 

He'd just have to find out for himself. 

The wood of the chair he was sitting on seemed like hard silk. He kept slipping off and scrambling back up. It wasn't cold any more; the air seemed familiar. Looking around, Ron saw familiar curtains, bright light shining through crooked windows. It was the Burrow. 

Mrs. Weasley sat in a corner, her face brighter and younger than when he had seen her last, her wrinkles gone or smoothened as though someone had ironed them out. In her arms there was a white bundle, crinkled like tissue paper, and moving. 

'Mum?' Ron asked. 'What's that?' She didn't look up. Walking over, frowning, he looked at the bundle in her arms. It was a child. A child with bright blue eyes and a thatch of red hair, its tiny face sweet but thin-looking. It was almost as though the child could see him, even if his mother didn't; it stretched out a hand and waved its tiny fingers at him. 

Mrs. Weasley followed the direction of the child's hand and looked straight at Ron – or straight _through_ him. It was unnerving. He felt his arm to see if he was a ghost, and it was warm and comfortingly solid. 

'Mum?' he asked again, tentative. 

She was still looking through him. 'Are you hungry?' Her arms cradled the child protectively. Ron wondered whether it was hers, and whether it was Bill or Charlie or Percy – it couldn't be one of the twins, surely. 'Do you want something?' 

The child wriggled, waving its fingers at Ron. 

'Is there something you want?' She was holding it close, rocking it gently. 'Is something wrong?' 

Getting up, moving into a ray of sunlight that was streaming from the crooked window like water over rocks, she was thrown into new light, and Ron saw his mother as a different person from the motherly, fierce Molly Weasley; she looked hopeful, expectant, young. 

Then she took a few steps forward and walked right through him, and he could almost feel himself disintegrate. 

As he walked down the empty corridor Ron was almost sure that she would be sitting there amongst the tired lamps and the musty smell of old books and the throng of passing people, contributing to a guilty shuffling noise that seemed more silent than silence. Real silence, he thought, was ominous; the guilty, shuffling silence was strict, full of rules. It was just like Hermione to spend half her time in a place filled with that kind of silence. 

He opened the door to the library and passed Madam Pince, her glasses set straight on her nose, sitting at the desk behind which she sheltered from the winter. She glared at him. Ron sighed and looked around for Hermione. 

_You made up your mind, now act on it,_ he told himself, looking for her at the almost-empty tables. She was there at a corner table, a stack of books obscuring her face – he was only sure it was her from the brown hair he could see above the books. He made his way towards her. She was staring at the books in front of her, not moving. At first she didn't seem to notice him slipping into the seat next to her, and then she looked up and started. 

'Hello,' he said as peaceably as anyone with a heart rate ten times faster than normal could possibly be. 

'Hello,' she returned, taking a book off the top of the pile and becoming very interested in it. 

'I want to talk to you,' he began. He could see that every part of her was shouting '_No! Not again!_' and gulped, but went on. 'You don't need to say anything. Just… tell me what you think.' 

There was no answer, only the head bent over the book and the brown hair waterfalling over her shoulders and the sides of her face. Gently he reached out to turn the book the right way around. 

'I owe you an apology,' he said as softly as he could, feeling Madam Pince's gaze on him and thinking that she could probably get a job drilling holes in metal with her eyes. 'For – doing what I did. I know it was out of turn, and I'm sorry.' 

There was still no answer. 

'Listen, I've been thinking,' he went on, feeling ridiculously frightened and calm at the same time. 'I know you don't want to be any more than friends. I know I've – let you down as a friend by doing that. I know you've thought of me – and I've thought of you – as a very close friend since we met.' He paused. 'Well, perhaps not since we met. Since we knocked out a troll in the bathroom, anyway.' She smiled at this, almost as though it was against her will. Smiling back but steeling himself, he continued, 'But, Hermione, lately I've not been feeling like you're nothing but a friend. I've been watching you, even though I didn't know you myself. And suddenly I realised that you were more than just a friend. I've seen the way you arrange everything perfectly, I've seen the look you get when I upset you, I've seen that sleepy look on your face when you're just about to fall asleep. Usually I would have been annoyed or passed it off as normal, but I began to see it… differently. All those little things became special.'

'They did?' she broke in, her voice small and incredulous. 

'Yeah,' he said, feeling incredibly ridiculous. 

She looked down at her book again, and he could see her cheek turning slightly red. 

'I know you don't think of me that way,' he said, 'and I know it's disturbing to you. But being your friend is more important to me,' he looked down at his hands, feeling his ears go red, 'than trying to force you to feel something you never possibly could. I suppose what I was attempting to say – before digging myself into this enormous hole – was that I'm willing to be just friends, if you can forget about what I did earlier.' 

He felt a great weight roll off his shoulders at this, but something inside him was yelling, _That isn't what you're supposed to say, you git_! 

'You are?' she said. He was watching her face, watching her eyes that darted to meet his for a brief second before turning away again. 

'Yeah,' he repeated. 

'So we're friends,' she said, 'always best friends,' and looked a little sad, a little happy, and turned to her book with a smile that seemed bitter although he told himself that it was not, it couldn't be. 

They sat there in silence for what seemed like hours. The guilty silence of library-goers that was slowly turning into half-real silence was swirling in his ears. She didn't move, didn't turn the page, just stared blankly into _The Second Sight_ with eyes that didn't seem to see anything. 

Something was wrong. Ron could feel it. 

He turned her face towards his and looked at her curiously. She still looked sad, slightly bitter, her mouth curving in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. 

'You're _still_ unhappy.' The words flew out of his mouth without his permission. It was a statement, not a question. 

The tiniest of movements in subconscious assent, although she didn't make any obvious move. Her eyes looked into his, and this time didn't flicker away. 

Impulsively he slipped out of the chair and dropped to his knees in front of her, half in joke and half in earnest. 'Hermione, what have I done? Is this enough for you? I'm sorry! I'm sorry! We're still friends! Just – don't look so unhappy. Listen, I know I shouldn't have done that.' At the sight of him, all arms and legs, on his knees on the library floor, she smiled briefly. He smiled too, the lopsided smile that refused to go away. 

He was shocked when she brought up a hand to run two fingers along the curve of his mouth, something she would never have done in her right mind even if she hadn't been angry with him. 'Your smile is different,' she said softly, reflectively. 'It's nice this way. Keep it like that,' for he had stopped smiling and now looked nervously up at her. She stopped as well, her hand coming down to the table. 'Oh, I'm sorry.' 

Anticipation and apprehension were rising in him. 'Hermione? I thought you were all right with us being just friends.' 

There was a brief pause. 'Maybe I'm not,' she said, so softly that he thought he had misheard. 

'What?' 

'Maybe I want more than that,' she burst out, startling him. 'Maybe I want to be more than friends after all.' 

'But I thought –' Ron stuttered, speechless, 'I thought you were angry with me because _I_ wanted to.' _Just proves I know nothing about girls._

'I was angry because you confused me,' she said softly. 'I didn't know what to think.' 

'So you want to…' He didn't dare say anything more than that in case she took it the wrong way. 'You want to…?' 

She smiled, still sad, but the bitterness gone. 'Let's give it a shot, shall we? Just a try at being sort-of-together. In a twisted kind of way. See if it's more than a bout of madness. That's the only way to know, after all…' 

He smiled back at her, slipping back onto the chair, and then stopped. 'Hermione, do you really feel the same way?' 

'I suppose so,' she said guardedly. 

'You don't feel sorry for me, or anything, do you? I don't need pity. I just want to know what _you_ want. Do you really want to give it a shot?' He couldn't somehow seem to keep the hopefulness out of his voice. 

'Yes,' she said, and he couldn't help noticing that she still looked sad and although the smile now reached her eyes it was tinged with something that was not completely happy. He thought he knew why – he felt slightly the same way, although a strange exhilaration was rising to take the place of his earlier apprehension. They would never, ever be the same again. They could never go back to being just friends. Somehow he could not rid himself of doubt, of the suspicion that this was the only reason she wanted to try. Either that, or pity. 

_Don't be so proud, you idiot,_ his inner voice counselled him. _This is what you've wanted_. 

He took a deep breath and looked down at her. 

'Oh, Hermione,' he said, 'don't look so _sad_,' and he was bending down to kiss the corner of her mouth and ducking out of the library through the rows of books and silent, moving people to avoid Madam Pince's glare. 

Now that he was in an admittedly tense sort of relationship with Hermione, Ron didn't know how to act. Was he supposed to be like Percy, who had a solid, almost staid relationship, or like Fred, whose relationship with Angelina was less than staid? During breakfast Harry had noticed that she was no longer tense from sitting at Ron's left, and had winked at him. 

Perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea after all. 

_Maybe it wasn't_, said the first voice. 

_Yes it was_, said the second. 

So he found himself in the common room, in front of the fire, Harry and Hermione by his side, in that kind of friendly silence that was infinitely comforting. The silence of people who were so at ease with each other that they felt no need to say anything. Tentatively he reached out to put an arm around Hermione, and to his surprise she leant back against his shoulder comfortably. Harry, noticing this, arched an eyebrow at Ron and said nothing. 

Ron supposed, with a wry twist of his mouth, that they must look like something out of a picture – the three of them, Harry's messy jet-black hair, his own hair that was often compared to a fire and the Gryffindor scarlet and carrots but was in actual fact none of those, and Hermione's smooth-brown hair, tumbled into curls. His arm around her, and Harry beside him, the catchlights in their eyes glimmering like distant stars. The comfortable, quiet silence. 

The nights had been longer and the days were growing shorter as winter progressed; tonight was no different. It was early for sundown, but they were sitting in front of the fire with the darkness and the howl of the wind that rushed past the windows like an angry wolf. It made Ron uneasy. The brief sunlight left no relief; instead he felt as though something was building up. Midwinter day was looming close, according to Professor Trelawney, who had rattled on about gloom and doom for the entire lesson. 

Hermione broke the silence by pushing to her feet. 'Ron, do you want to continue the Charms revision?' 

'I covered the fourth chapter myself,' he said. 

'Oh.' She looked surprised. 'Well, I'll go over Transfiguration with you, then. Coming?' 

'In a moment,' said Ron, knowing full well that Harry wanted to talk to him in private. 'You go first.' 

She climbed out of the portrait hole. Ron watched her go, watched the brown hair that tumbled over her shoulders. 

Harry turned to him with a slight, disbelieving grin. 'You've made up, then?' 

'Yes. I suppose you could call it that.' 

Harry pushed a lock of hair out of his glasses, and stared intently at Ron. 'You must have done something really, really good – or right at least – to make her comfortable enough to let you do that.' 

Ron grinned sheepishly. 'Er – we're sort-of together.' 

'_What_?' Harry's bright green eyes flicked upward towards his friend's blue ones. 'I thought –' 

'Listen, Harry, I know it sounds crazy,' Ron said firmly, 'but we're giving it a shot. And I don't know what to do!' His last sentence turned into a ragged plea, rising a few notches higher. 'I just don't know how to act. Am I supposed to be the same around her or totally different?' 

A mischievous grin spread over Harry's face. 'Write her a poem,' he suggested wickedly. 'Find something that rhymes with Hermione. Then send her flowers. Then you can try a serenade –' He was cut off as Ron pelted him with a cushion. 'Seriously, Ron, I don't know what she's expecting of you. _Find out_.' 

Half-heartedly Ron groaned and stepped towards the portrait hole. 

On the way to the library he heard a strange noise from an empty classroom and stopped to peek in. It was dark inside other than a spark of blue light that flickered as though a breeze was blowing. Curious, he kept close by the door and watched. 

There was someone in the classroom. 

Ron, squinting at the light, saw it moving, being lifted. The blue light was growing, shining with an icy glint that reminded him of icicles and frost, and other, smaller blue lights were growing in a circle around it. Candles. The person was lighting a ring of candles. 

As the blue light made an eerie circle around the person, Ron caught a glimpse of pale hair and glittering grey eyes. Draco Malfoy. He was holding the largest candle and whispering something. The flames grew to resemble blades of cold grass. Ron was indeed beginning to feel something entering, something evil, something _cold_ at any rate. It felt like a less intense cold burn. He didn't feel like setting foot in the room for fear the cold would envelop him. 

As the chant grew louder and the flames burned like miniature suns the cold became more painful. Ron could _feel _something entering, something that wanted only to harm… Its presence was becoming painfully ominous. 

Draco looked up and saw the slit in the door from which two watery-blue eyes, wide with suspicion, were staring in. His grey eyes burned with cold fire. Ron, who had originally planned to report it, took to his heels and fled down the corridor. 


	5. Bone-Breaker

In The Bleak Midwinter

In The Bleak Midwinter: Part 05

I know this part has taken a long while, and I'm sorry... I was stuck somehow, until inspiration hit me in the middle of the night a few days ago. I hope you enjoy this chapter, anyway. I had a wonderful time in Sydney - thanks to all of you who wished me happy holidays! Again, this part is terrible, but the plot is beginning to unfold quite a bit in its own twisted way. Ron's time to shine... and it's wrenched away again. I'd still love feedback, even if it's to say how disturbing the ending is...

A thousand thanks to Tinkerbell, Kaitou Jeanne, metal mouth, Tigerfairy, Aht, Elaina, Rebekah, Julius, Mystic Madzy and Helmione Nightingranger, Veralidaine, BeautifulAsCho, Ayleeandra, ~*Megnha*~, Emily, Dracaenas, RonWeasleyFan, Mrs. Weasley, KristinPoe, Carly, jen, Rin Berry, HPRules, nadia, Cassandra Claire, Winky and Dobby, Fred Weasley's Girlfriend, College Girl, B, lwbush, Blue Butterfly, Keith Fraser and Zsenya for reviewing part four and giving me incentive through my lazy-bones period...

All characters and places except strange hooded girl belong to J. K. Rowling.

Although the whispering of their footsteps down the forbidding stone resembled the guilty, shuffling silence in the library, Ron didn't feel this time as though there were any silence at all. Now it had become a dreadful, silence-breaking spear of sound, travelling in his mind's eye all the way down the corridor and into the candlelit space. His fingers touched her elbow, the gesture half protectiveness and half unexplainable need for reassurance. 

They reached the candlelit room, not saying a word, standing outside the door with breath coming fast and shallow and unwanted. Ron peered round the edge of the door at last. 

The candles still stood burning inexorably, giving out an energy that was cold and terrifying and reminded him of icicles and Draco's eyes – but the spell-worker himself was gone. Startled and more than a little shaken, Ron looked around, but did not go in; he felt as though there was something in there that ought not to be touched, that was full of malice and glittered like the air before a thunderstorm. 

'Ron?' Her voice seemed to creep out of her mouth to rest in the air around his ears. 'I can feel something. Is he still in there?' 

'No,' Ron whispered back, 'but don't go in.' 

She looked inside the dim-lit classroom, then turned back to stare curiously at him. 

'Ron, there's nothing in that classroom.' 

'_What_?' He stared into the room. The candles were still there, burning like miniature stars, filling the room with cloudy malice. 'Yes, there is, Hermione – can't you see the candles?' 

'No.' One of her hands came up to clasp him by the wrist. 'But there's something in the air that just… isn't good.' 

'It's the candles,' said Ron incredulously. 'Are you sure you can't see them?' 

'Are _you_ sure you're seeing them?' she countered. 

'I am!' he said, torn between feeling stung at her doubt and feeling strange at the touch of her hand. 'They're _there_ – you can feel them.' 

'All right.' She sighed quietly. 'Ron, we can't go to a teacher.' 

'Why not?' 

'Because they might not be able to see the candles, either. I think –' She broke off the sentence abruptly. He recognised that look of intrinsic logic, recognised her expression, her eyes thoughtful. 'Wait. Ron – how many brothers have you got?' 

'Er – five,' he said. 'Why?' 

Hermione looked momentarily thrown. 'You're the sixth?' 

'Yes.' 

'Are you sure they're your only brothers?' 

He was silent. For some reason, he was remembering the dream-child, the child who had looked at him with bright blue eyes quite like his and yet unlike his own that seemed to see him. 

'Ron?' 

She was looking worried now. Ron tore himself away from his thoughts and looked at her, trying to give a reassuring smile. To his annoyance he could feel his mouth twisting into the lopsided, wry smile that had haunted his mouth for the past few days. 'I don't know, Hermione,' he said honestly. 'If you really want to know, I'll write home and ask. Maybe Percy has a twin or something.' He paused to consider this. 'Percy, having a twin? No _wonder_ the twin ran away…' 

Hermione laughed nervously. 'Could you? Please?' 

'All right. Why d'you want to know anyway?' He was beginning to feel less uneasy about the candles and Malfoy's ritual, but he couldn't shake the tiny little voice in the back of his head that was screaming at him: _There's something bad in there!_

_I'll come back_, he told the voice as firmly as he could. 

The voice subsided, leaving a simmering uncertainty. 

Ron realised that Hermione was looking at him worriedly again, and that she looked rather shaken; feeling half-guilty for taking her there he walked her back up to the library, their arms close, almost touching. 

Transfiguration was forgotten again. His textbooks lay in a pile by the side of their table, looking somehow dark in the lamplight. Instead they were bent over the book Hermione had been reading, or pretending to read, when they had sat down at the library earlier – _The Second Sight_. 

As far as Ron was concerned, he had six brothers. And yet the dream-child with bright eyes kept creeping back into his mind, with its intelligent stare and wave. Six. Six. Seven… 

'The seventh son of a seventh son,' Hermione said. 'Is your father a seventh son, Ron?' She looked tired, but in her element: research. Her eyes shone dully with weariness and persistence. 

He thought for a moment. 'Yes, actually – I have six uncles and three aunts.' 

'I think you might have the second sight, Ron.' She had taken her eyes off the page and was looking up at him. He looked down at her, his mouth sliding lopsided almost affectionately. He had become so used to her of late that he had barely noticed what she looked like and what she did, but it was as though his eyes had been pried open. With a start he realised that she was thinner about the face and she looked pale and rather cold. 

'Are you all right?' he asked, feeling terrible. 'You look pale.' If it was the energy from that desolate room filled with candles that burnt cold inexorably… 

She didn't answer him. 'If _you_ get any paler your freckles are going to disappear,' she said, brushing her fingers over the dusting of freckles on his nose. He shivered, grinning at her and feeling slightly less terrible. 

'Is that bad or good?' he asked her, half in jest. 

'My mother always said freckles were the devil in boys,' she said, her face unreadable. 

He countered, 'That's not really an answer,' and smiled down at her, watching her eyes dart from his face to the side of his head and back. Somehow he enjoyed looking at the way her face curved downwards to her slightly-pointed chin and the curls that floated onto her cheeks and forehead. 

'It all depends on your interpretation,' she said with a grin, and shook a curl out of her eye. 

At that moment he wanted to kiss her again, _really_ kiss her this time, take her face in his hands and run his fingers through her hair, but somehow he knew he wouldn't. Instead he reached for her hand on the table and took it in his, linking his fingers with hers. 

She flushed slightly, looking down at the book again, but kept her hand in his. 

'I think you can see and feel things some of us can't,' she said, after a brief pause. 'The second sight – it's an old term. And I think your being able to see the candles means that something _is_ wrong. This has something to do with your being frozen, Ron.' 

He was silent, thinking about his dreams and the night he had been frozen stiff in the dormitory. 

'I think we should wait before reporting any of this,' she went on. 'Besides, we'll have to find out if you're a seventh son, won't we?' 

Ron found his thoughts wandering alarmingly from her words. He felt as though he was under the Imperius curse again; he felt relaxed, amazingly relaxed, almost floating. His eyes, still trained on the side of her face, were swimming out of focus. 

'Ron… Ron?' 

He tried to bring himself back to what she was saying, but couldn't. 

And then, like a Bludger to the head, a chorus of silent voices seemed to scream in his ear. _Something's wrong_! _Something's wrong, you dolt_! _Be careful_! Blinding pain filled his head for a second, then dissipated as though it had never been there. Vaguely he felt cool hands on his shoulders, pulling him upright. 'Ron?' 

'Head – hurts,' he said indistinctly, then realised that it didn't any more. 

Hermione was still holding him upright. 'Ron, what happened?' 

Shaking his head to clear it, he turned back to her. 'Hermione, something's going to happen. Something very bad.' 

The air in the common room was filled with tension, crackling like faint lightning. Harry had not yet been informed of this latest discovery, and Neville was sitting by the fire, its light dappling his body with shadows. Ron knew there was something wrong, that something was going to happen – and his fear was spreading to Hermione, whose face was tense and worried. 

Yet through all the worry and tension Ron felt almost happy at the discovery, at the knowledge that he was different. Finally he had a trait that distinguished him from everyone else – for a long while, even though he had not allowed himself to think about it – he had been bitter towards Harry, who shone out without even trying. Harry was _special_, and he wasn't. He had always been that red-headed kid who was always hanging around with famous Harry Potter. A faint hope was tugging at him, the hope that he would indeed prove to be different, to have 'the second sight'. 

_Stop it_, he told himself. _You're being _ridiculous_. _

And as he was telling himself that, what had been about to happen really happened. 

There was a flicker in the air, as though the fabric of the air had been plucked and was vibrating back into place, and he felt the glittering malice of the thunderstorm swirling everywhere. There was a swirl of white mist like the faraway clouds on a sunny day, and a feeling of bone-breaking cold that swept the room and broke the lull of the fire-warmth. All four started as out of the mist appeared a tall, hooded figure, robed in white, one hand holding a glinting dagger that sparked in the firelight. The image tugged at Ron's memory. 

He had seen this before. 

Cold, always cold… his face pressed against cold glass, painful, invading cold entering… 

The dormitory window, the night he had been frozen. 

Neville was still, eyes flickering over the figure, into the fire. Hermione was clutching Ron's arm with fingers that gripped like steel. Harry, as usual, stood up to confront the figure, but Ron could see that he was shaking all over. 

'What do you want?' Harry asked, looking small and cold with the light glinting off his glasses. Hermione clutched at him with her other hand to try and pull him back into his seat, and succeeded in tugging him backwards so that he fell against the back of the sofa and sat down. 

The figure reached up two surprisingly delicate yet strong-looking hands and threw back the hood. 

It was a girl – if this was possible. 

Ron rather thought it wasn't. 

She was taller than even him, perhaps seven feet, and impossibly beautiful – long blonde hair loose on her shoulders, and cold, assessing, icy grey eyes not unlike Malfoy's. The three boys stared at her with amazement, Hermione with disgust. The girl raised the dagger. 

Neville scrambled abruptly to his feet and stood staring at her as though his feet were rooted to the floor. His eyes were wide with terror. The girl's head was raised, searching. Her dagger drew symbols on the air. Hermione's grip on Ron's arm was like a vice. Ron himself was shivering with the knowledge that she was after something, and after _him_… 

She turned towards _Neville_. 

The brown-haired boy looked stunned, slowly backing away as she advanced upon him, her grey eyes like burning coals in her head. Her skin was pale, and the hair that tumbled down her back was silver-tinged. The glittering malice was crackling now; the thunder was arriving. 

Neville backed slowly, and Ron noticed that he was holding on tightly to something in his hand. He looked horrified. It was unnatural, this mask of terror set on Neville's sweet face, turning him to ice. Ron couldn't stand it. 'Leave him alone,' he cried, and he realised that Hermione had all this time been muttering spells with her hand on her wand, but nothing had come of it. The dagger moved inexorably. Harry was tingling with suppressed energy, ready to spring up. The hero, always ready to fight, and Ron was as usual the unimportant sidekick. 

Partly this and partly something else, something nameless made Ron spring up, shaking Hermione's hand off his arm, face pale with the familiar exclamation-mark freckles standing out clearly across his nose. He took a few hesitant steps towards Neville, then stopped dead behind the figure as she reached out towards the boy. 

'What do you want from me?' Neville was saying in a low moan, still backing. 

She pointed at his clenched fist. 

Ron saw the familiar ball, its wisps of white smoke gone as a cloudy red pervaded the inside. The Remembrall? Neville was holding it out to her now, offering it up to _make it go away_… Without thinking, he dived for Neville and pushed him out of the way, rolling on the floor behind one of the sofas. 

Neville, fighting for breath, propped himself up on one elbow, staring, as Ron reached out a long arm to halt the Remembrall in its slow progress across the floor. 

Hermione and Harry, both of whom had sprung up the moment Ron had dived, were staring at the portrait hole, which swung open; at Professor Minerva McGonagall, who was pointing her wand at the tall cloaked girl with the blackness of rage in her eyes. 

The cloaked girl turned around to stare at her. 'Give us the Aelin,' she said, her voice icy and sweet and musical. 

'It's useless in his hands,' cried Professor McGonagall. 'He's only a boy!' 

Ron caught the Remembrall in his fingers. 

The movement of the dagger halted. 

The very air around them seemed to throb and glow for a moment with an unnatural light, red as the light of the fire and crackling with tension. Ron felt the Remembrall grow warm, then hot, burning his fingers, but somehow he knew he must not let go of it, he must never let go of it… 

Collective gasps, like the wind through the leaves, and stares; Ron could focus on nothing but the glowing red of Neville's Remembrall as he scrambled to his feet, Neville holding on to his arm as he scrambled up as well. The ice-eyed girl trained her blazing grey gaze on him, but they were no longer the eyes of a person who is so fixed on a desired object that she has nothing to fear; there was doubting fury in those eyes that now burnt like coals in her pale face. 

Behind him Ron felt a tense support; Harry and Hermione, both at his side, wands raised. Professor McGonagall was gasping out spells and flashes of light sparked from her wand like a burst of falling stars, yet none of this had any effect on the cloaked girl, who was drawing herself taller and taller and spreading her long arms wide. Ron looked up at her. 

'Go away.' The rebellious part of him forced the words out of his mouth. 'Go _away_,' another part of him shrieked. 

The girl began to scream. 

It, Ron's hazy mind told him, was more like a thousand violins playing a single high note at the same time; more like the keening cry of kestrels over the trees in autumn. She was taking violently swift steps towards him now, dagger upraised, drawing symbols in the air that glowed faintly before disappearing. He found himself rooted to the floor. Struggling feebly to take a step forward, he realised that his feet were rooted to the ground. 

Neville made a harsh sort of whimpering noise beside him. 

'Neville,' Hermione whispered, her eyes wide with terror, 'why does she want your Remembrall? What's happening to it?' She was looking at Ron, in whose hands the Remembrall was beginning to glow and spin. 

'That's no Remembrall,' Professor McGonagall cried from her position at the other end of the room; evidently she had been rooted to the floor as well. 'Neville, you foolish boy, how on earth did you come to have it fall into your hands?' 

The girl paused in mid-step. 'The Aelin,' she said in that musical, cold voice that liquefied bones. The voice of the predator, Ron realised. 'But he has not the power.' 

'Of course he doesn't,' the professor snapped, for a moment sounding quite like her old self. 'He's only a child.' 

The girl directed her freezing gaze on Ron again. 'But _he_ does,' she said, and as she lunged forwards with her dagger Ron just managed to swing wildly sideways, Neville and Harry swaying with him. 

He was not swift enough; the tip of the dagger ripped a gash in his robes and nicked him on the shoulder. 

The cut stung like ice. 

Ron, clutching his arm, nearly dropped the Remembrall. 

As his fingers fumbled for a hold on the glowing ball, he realised something. All this while the Remembrall had been exuding a kind of warmth that glowed its way into him, and it was changing him. Warmth and something almost like power were building him up and making him stronger. He felt an indescribable comfort just holding on to it. 

And there was power, there, that he could seize. 

He gripped the Remembrall tight in his good hand and took it. And pushed, too, pushed through his mind with all his might. 

It felt as though he was holding an ocean in his hands – an ocean that was flowing out of him. He directed it almost malevolently at the girl in front of him, caught up in a secure fury that swept the ocean out of his hands and into her. 

The air began to throb again, the miasma of red crackling around them. He felt the subconscious support of the others at his side, and felt the icy power of the tall cloaked figure diminishing. The scream died slowly to a long thin noise that keened out once and then died. The others found themselves able to move their feet again. With a swirl of mist and one last freezing gust of cold, the girl disappeared. 

Clouds of wispy white smoke rushed into the Remembrall, and it lay docilely in Ron's hand. The miasma faded and the tension eased, leaving the Gryffindor common room the same as it had ever been before the cold. 

The cut on Ron's shoulder burned like fire and ice. 

Later he had a confused impression of people rushing into the common room and filling it with gasps and stares and spells; he realised that they were the professors. Dumbledore was away in London. Professor McGonagall had made sure there was no trace left of the cold and sent them all up to the dormitories straight away – except for Ron. She had pulled him out of the common room and told him, kindly but firmly, to stay out of it. 

And this had, for some reason, devastated him. 

He had felt the power in his hands for those crucial moments when it had filled the room, made the air throb and crackle with it, and somehow he _knew_ that he was the only one who could make it work. Finally he had done something worthy of Harry, something hero-worthy – and they were taking it away. 

Professor McGonagall had explained that she was taking away the Remembrall until Dumbledore came, and locking it away; the girl had come to take it, and there might be others. But Ron wanted it. He wanted to feel again the secure fury, the strange throbbing warmth that was comfort in itself. And a part deep down inside him wanted the power too, the part of Ron that had been worn out by poverty and squashed by the shining achievements of his brothers and was always longing to prove himself, although he would never have confessed that to anyone. A tiny, angry, unrecognisable part of his mind was furious at it all, but the fury was distorted, strange. 

Professor McGonagall finished her speech and motioned him back into the room, ignoring his protests. 

The unrecognisable part of his mind was growing larger and more furious. 

For a second Ron shook himself, trying to get rid of the alien sensation – he had been angry before, furious even, but never this feeling of cold anger, this need for cold revenge. Usually his bouts of temper were hot and impetuous, ending as fast as they began. 

And then it took over. 

He went up the stairs to the dormitory quite calmly, but took the wrong flight of stairs. 

Inside the girls' dormitory Hermione was sitting, quite calmly, on her own bed; she looked up and smiled wanly as Ron entered the dormitory, his eyes blazing with some implacable emotion. 'Hello, Ron. You look tired; why don't you sit down?' 

He sat down next to her, and the not-so-tiny-now angry part of his mind said, _She's something they can't have. _

_But you can._

And Ron reached over, took Hermione roughly in his arms, and kissed her, despite having known earlier that he wouldn't; something had changed. She protested, her fingers pushing against his shoulders, then relaxed into him, strangely passive as he crushed her fingers in his own. His lips traced the lines of her face, her eyes, and she drew a long shuddering breath as his hands tangled in her hair. 

In a brief moment of sanity as his fingers toyed with her collar and he stared over her head at the rising moon through the window, he wondered whether he would stay in control, because although one part of his mind knew full well that this was _wrong_, the other part knew equally well that, at least now, he didn't care. 

The cut on his shoulder, somehow unnoticed in the confusion, still burnt like fire and ice. 


End file.
